Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness
by orange-sunshiine
Summary: Historical AU fic set during the American Revolution. Wilson is an American soldier who gets shot, House is the local doctor who helps him. Wrote this several years ago for a community on LJ, figured I'd post it here. I tried to be accurate.


**A/N: I wrote this for a community on LiveJournal several years ago, and figured it was decent enough to post here.**

03 January 1777 - Princeton, New Jersey.

It was bitter cold. So cold that one could see his own breath even at noontime when the sun was highest.

The night before had been long and hard, a march of what felt like a hundred miles through the snow. Since Washington had not received sufficient funds for his militia, the men did not even have the benefit of warm coats and usable shoes; the outcome was a trail of bloody footprints along the marching path.

Still, they had pressed on.

And now here they were, trying not to freeze as screams and gunshots rang out in the air. Men, young and old, who had wives and children and sisters and mothers fell to the ground. What seemed like a never ending river of blood flowed out from both sides of the battle field.

This was the situation that private James Evan Wilson, of the New Jersey Militia, found himself in for the second time in two weeks.

00

Gregory House was not a soldier, as he was unable to fight due to having had his leg amputated.

Tall, thin, with piercing blue eyes and long gray hair, he lived on the outskirts of town. A pair of homemade crutches helped him to get around, while his slave, William, helped with daily tasks.

The people of Princeton called him "Dr. House", though he was not really a doctor. He had no formal medical training, but had read a few books on anatomy as a teenager. He came to understand the subject fairly easily, and found that he could quickly diagnose and cure many of the townsfolk's various ailments. For this, he had become respected.

Nonetheless, his injury, which he would never talk about, had caused him to become an acrimonious man. Thus, despite his abilities, he was generally avoided unless his services were absolutely necessary.

Now was one of those times. At around one o'clock swarms of Continental troops descended on his residence, seeking help for their wounded at what was the closest patriot-sympathetic location.

00

As the first bloody soldier made his way to Houses' door, private Wilson had already been in battle for what felt like several hours. Running off of a mix of courage and pure adrenaline, he was focused mainly on reacting to his surroundings.

And react was what he did when he saw one of the Redcoats take a shot at Benjamin Waters, one of his closest friends. Together, the men had camped, joked, seen battle, and cried afterward. So, when the shot was fired, James instinctively pushed Benjamin out of the way, taking a musket ball to the side in the process.

00

House had treated ten men so far, and James Wilson was to be the eleventh. Benjamin and another soldier had carried him to the makeshift hospital only moments after he'd been shot.

Tears streamed down Wilson's face as the two men helped him onto Houses' kitchen table, which currently served as an operating space. Almost instinctively, he clutched his side, desperately trying to somehow push the pain away.

House looked the younger man up and down, before setting a crutch aside trying to move Wilson's hand away from the bullet hole. This action caused Wilson to scream, as in his mind, his only viable defense mechanism had been stripped away.

Rolling his eyes, House walked a few feet over to the pile of fire wood and picked out a small stick. He placed it in Wilson's mouth to stop the noise. Having something to clench his teeth onto allowed Wilson to take better control of himself, and few seconds later, he opened his big, brown eyes and looked at House, questioningly. It was as if he was silently asking if he would live or die, or at least if the pain could be stopped.

"You were shot. But I don't think it hit any vital organs. I...I think the bullet is fairly close to the surface. It'll hurt, but I can remove it."

Wilson took a deep breath, fearing even more pain to come. He wasn't sure if he could take it, and shook his head 'no'.

House nodded, "Aye, well, that's fine. I don't have to take it out, but if I don't, the wound might turn green and then black and then you're going to die."

Wilson stared at the doctor. Though in pain, he was still surprised by the nonchalant tone of the other man's voice. But the message was clear, and Wilson definitely did not want to die. Not there, not then. There was still a war to be fought and freedom to be won. He shook his head 'yes', as if in agreement to the 'surgery'.

With that, House motioned for William to come forward with the large basin of water that he had been using to clean his hands in between surgeries. As House washed his hands in the red, murky solution, the men that had carried Wilson in grabbed the wounded man's arms and legs, effectively pinning him down. House then expertly removed the bullet using a set of iron forceps.

A loud, piercing scream shattered the air. It wasn't too long after that Wilson blacked out, having gone into shock from the whole ordeal.

00

The next morning, Wilson woke up in a strange place, on a strange bed. His side hurt and he could feel what must have been day's worth of sweat all over his body. Then he made the mistake of trying to get up.

This did not work. It hurt too much to move. He began calling for help instead, but when no reply came, panic set in.

A million thoughts raced through Wilson's mind. Where was he? What had happened? Why wasn't anyone around?

His heart started beating faster and faster, and he began sweating again. The last thing he could remember was pushing Benjamin out of the way...then pain...then...

And then House came into the room and interrupted the anxiety attack.

00

"My name is Gregory House. You were shot by the Redcoats yesterday, and I saved your life." House stated calmly. "You lost a lot of blood, and slept until now."

Wilson nodded. That explained the pain, and the location. Taking a deep breath, he began to introduce himself, but stopped, feeling that he ought to at least get up and face the man who had saved him. He threw his long hair over his shoulders to get it out of his face, and attempted to sit up once again.

Unfortunately, pain shot through his stomach, and he was forced to lay back down. He tried his hardest not to cry from the pain.

"Stay put," House said, "Its a kind gesture, but I know your name, because your friend told me it. And, you need to rest. You'll be okay to move in a few days."

Wilson bit his lip, "A few days? But...I have...to get back to the.." he stammered.

House shook his head, "The men left already. Thought you were dying, and moved on. No use wasting resources while waiting around for dead soldiers when Washington can barely afford to keep up the live ones. If it helps, the general promised to send someone back to claim your corpse. Oh, and, your side won."

"They...left me here to die?" Wilson asked. Though the action made logical sense, it still hurt him to some degree.

"Aye."

Wilson took a deep breath, taking the whole situation in. It was probably better just to focus on the bigger picture, he realized.

"But we won. How many casualties?"

"T'was at least forty."

"All dead?"

House shook his head, "Many were injured. Those who I felt would survive, they took with them..."

Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose. "...And the rest of the dying?"

"Two died in the parlor this morning. The others are being housed throughout town."

There was an awkward silence before House pulled himself up using a bed post. "I've got some things to take care of. I'll come back later to check on your wound."

With that, he walked out of the room, leaving Wilson alone to contemplate the recent events for the next few hours.

00

House also used the time to do some thinking of his own.

Something about Wilson had intrigued (or perhaps attracted?) House from the first moment that he'd laid eyes on him, but he wasn't sure what it was. This interest had, however, been the reason why he'd let Wilson stay in his home, in his bed in the first place; why he'd even bothered to speak to him when he'd woken up rather than just sending him off to recover with some neighbor who was supportive of the cause.

He felt, in some way, attached to Wilson. Like they'd met before or had some other connection. Maybe because House had been a soldier too. He had once fought battles as Wilson just had – but then, why didn't he feel the same towards the other soldiers that he'd treated? House then moved on to recall his past, then examine himself, in an attempt to figure out why he felt as he did. But, doing this only made House depressed. Not only was he reminded of the times before the incident, when things were good and normal, but he was unable to arrive at any definite conclusions, which made him frustrated.

Eventually, House got tired of feeling frustrated and had a couple of glasses of liquor. This helped calm him enough to allow him to decide to accept his current inability to solve this puzzle, in favor of letting things play out for awhile and seeing where they went.

00

In the days to come, Wilson got stronger. His side hurt less and less, though certain tasks were still uncomfortable to do.

House sent William to deal with much of Wilson's needs - getting dressed, for instance. The young slave always did a remarkable job handling things; was very respectful and tried to give Wilson some form of dignity. But for even most basic medically relevant things, House always took the lead.

Despite his desire to learn more about Wilson, House was surprised when they began having full out conversations during his visits.

This was a big thing for House. He usually thought talking about one's views was a trivial matter, but now, he actually wanted to hear someone else's thoughts.

Sometimes, they talked about their views on Paine's Crisis papers. Other times, they spoke of what they thought, and hoped, the outcome of the war would be.

The discussions would sometimes go on for hours. Philosophical views would be expressed, then jokes would be made. And then, one day, when House made a medical comment, and Wilson seemed to express interest. Time was then spent with House explaining the human body, with Wilson listening intently.

Yet, during their talks, Wilson never once asked about Houses' leg, or lack thereof. For that, House was grateful. Far too often had patients inadvertently brought up painful memories by bringing it up.

00

It goes without saying that because of this connection, House was more gentle with Wilson than he was with his other patients.

When Wilson's bandages needed to be changed, House hobbled in on his crutches, sat awkwardly on the bed, and carefully changed them himself, but not before taking time to gently wash away the dried blood and sweat that always seemed to collect.

When Wilson's body hurt from a lack of muscle use, House did his best to rub him and help him do simple exercises with his arms and legs.

Once, when Wilson became frustrated with the pain that raising his right arm caused, and the fact that he could not brush out his hair because of it, House sat with him and combed his hair out. Of course, he locked the door and sent William away when during that occurrence.

00

Within a month, Wilson was almost fully healed, no thanks to Houses' extremely good care.

They both knew that they would soon have to part ways. Wilson decided that he would like to rejoin his battalion.

The thought of Wilson facing death again, and being unable to be around to help Wilson again if he needed it bothered House. It had been years since he'd felt such a connection to someone, and he did not want to lose his friend.

So when Wilson began getting ready to leave one Saturday morning, House stopped him. He sent William away again, and locked the door as had become custom.

As he took a seat on the bed, he began talking. "I have something for you. Two things, actually. Parting gifts..."

Wilson was surprised by the gesture. "There's no need for that. If anything, I'm the one that owes you."

House nodded, "'Still felt it was right. The first one is something that very few people can claim to have."

"Oh?" Wilson asked, now definitely interested.

00

House took a deep breath. "Fourteen years ago...I was living near Fort Detroit. Settled there after having done my service in the militia, during the Seven Years War. I had a wife, I practiced medicine, and we lived together in a cabin that we'd built up."

Wilson nodded, as if telling House to go on.

"It was a wonderful life. I was one of the lucky ones that got full payment from the Crown, so we did not have to worry if work was sparse. We were happy. And then during the Summer, the rebellion broke out."

"Pontiac's Rebellion?" Wilson asked, trying to be clear.

"Yes. A few of the Indians came to our area. Must've seen the house, decided to get revenge against our kind for our arrogance. Broke down the door...one of them stabbed me with a hatchet in the leg, and I started bleeding out on the floor. My wife escaped. Ran into the woods, to safety. Came back and took care of me...but...the wound was deep..." he trailed off.

"And it turned rotten?"

"Yes. I realized what was happening two days later. I was cold all over, and then the pain stopped entirely. My body – or that part of my body– was dying. I sent my wife to get help, and that night two soldiers that I'd once fought alongside helped to amputate."

Wilson lowered his gaze to the ground, "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure what else to say. He felt bad that House, or anyone else, would have to go through such trauma, but at the same time, House had managed to make a life for himself afterward and therefore did not need his sympathy.

House stared at him directly in the eyes, trying to gauge Wilson's true feelings. Satisfied with the general lack of pity, he added, "my wife was there for me, but the idea that I could not take care of her as a real man should be able tore me up. I couldn't plant the vegetables outside, take care of our horses. We had slaves, but...I couldn't oversee them. My wife and I parted ways a year later. I came here to... get away from her, from the remnants of that life."

The younger man was shocked, but grateful that House shared the story with him, though he was again unsure of what to say. He finally thanked House, noting how the gift of trust was one of the most precious gifts to give.

00

House smiled in reply to Wilson's statement. Then he asked Wilson to get out a box from atop a book shelf. Wilson did so, and placed it on the couch. House took out a key and unlocked it, then pulled out two old, worn notebooks.

He handed it to Wilson. "I made these when I was studying anatomy in my younger years. Wrote out my theories, how I thought things worked. Turned out I was right on most of it."

Wilson felt like he knew what was coming, but stayed silent

House continued on, " Now...these books have been everywhere with me. They were in my pack when I served as a field doctor, and on my farm in Detroit. But they are of no use to me, now. I understand it all, have it all in my head. You seemed interested when we spoke about the human body, so I thought you might like them..."

Now it was Wilson's turn to smile. "I will read them, I promise. Your talks inspired me, you know. Part of me wishes that I could understand it so well as you do, and be a doctor like yourself."

There was a short silence as House thought for a moment.

"You...could. I mean, you could stay here, and I could teach you."

"I would be a burden to you. You've been a good friend to me – better than most people I've ever met – and I don't want to put that pressure on you. Besides...I... I should rejoin the militia. Would it not be wrong to give up on the cause in such a way?" Wilson asked.

"Helping to heal a hundred wounded does more for the patriots than killing off one of the enemy." House answered, "But its your choice."

"True..." Wilson acknowledged as he took a moment to consider.

"You could do a lot of good. You're young, strong, smart. We... could put your bed in the spare room. You could be my assistant."

A couple more minutes passed before Wilson finally replied. "I suppose you're right, It would do more good to work as a doctor than to fight."

"Should I take that as a yes, then?" House asked, trying to hide the hopefulness in his voice.

Wilson smiled and shook his head, "yes."


End file.
